


the words to say to you

by MadScientific



Category: Transformers: Rescue Bots Academy (Cartoon)
Genre: Fluff, Nonbinary Character, Other, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadScientific/pseuds/MadScientific
Summary: that I wish you already knew.Wedge likes poetry, and nature, and his team, and Medix. Actually, as it turns out, Wedge really, really likes Medix. Attempts at poems about other things go a bit more poorly than he'd like, and poems about Medix come a bit more easily, and often, than expected. Until he figures out what his spark is saying, and he makes a plan.
Relationships: Wedge/Medix
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	the words to say to you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [completetheory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/completetheory/gifts).



> The poem used for the title is "You" by Danielle Van Alst. The two poems briefly quoted that aren't already attributed in the fic itself are "The Old Astronomer to His Pupil" by Sarah Williams and "acknowledgments" by Danez Smith.
> 
> For a variety of reasons I believe the recruits are the Cybertronian equivalent of college-aged and the Academy is something like a technical college.
> 
> This is the most shamelessly sappy romance I've written in forever, tbh.

Poems on Earth were different than poems on Cybertron.

Wedge had never been a fan of Cybertronian poetry; it was all epics and ballads, or what were called epics and ballads on Earth because humans had come up with about a hundred other variations, short and long, rhyming and “free-verse,” all different kinds of rhyme schemes and focuses on rhythm or just breaking the line in different places to take what might otherwise be flowery prose and mold it into a poem.

Back on Cybertron, the closest thing Wedge had to a favorite poem was fifty-six lines long and pretty short compared to most other poems, about Searchlight searching all throughout a lunar eclipse for a lost medic, and the most enthusiasm he’d ever been able to muster up for it had been _“Searchlight in the Darkness_ is pretty good, I like that one.” Other poems could be hundreds of lines long, and were about other Heroes of Cybertron; racers or cube players; soldiers or officers or units or specific battles during the war; or the Primes themselves. They were mostly for historians and sports fans, and he just… wasn’t interested.

Here on Earth, though, he had a datapad with a big chunk of memory devoted to poems he’d found and liked enough to save and revisit. He never would have expected it, but there it was. Sometimes he didn’t even save whole poems, just bits and pieces. He had haiku by Bashō and Issa and Soseki, “Ask Me” by William Stafford with the lines _Some time when the river is ice ask me / mistakes I have made. Ask me whether / what I have done is my life._ highlighted, “The Sciences Sing a Lullaby” by Albert Goldbarth with nothing highlighted at all. He had _I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night_ written alone and uncommented on. He had poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay, who had a lot of names for a single human and whose poems had a clear structure and rhyme scheme that he liked, and by e.e. cummings, who apparently didn’t capitalize his name and whose poems did weird things with spacing and punctuation and run-on nonsense sentences that he also liked. He had “I died for Beauty, but was scarce” by Emily Dickinson from when Wes had to memorize a poem ten lines or longer for class and he’d wound up almost able to recite it himself by the end of it. He was pretty sure he even had song lyrics in there that he’d never heard the songs to; he definitely had a few he knew he had, thanks to Whirl’s karaoke nights.

More than anything else, though, he had poems about nature and animals, and poems about other things that used nature and animals as symbolism. He was just drawn to it. And, secretly, that was what he was trying to write.

He didn’t know why he was keeping it a secret, exactly. His friends were good people, and none of them made fun of each other for the things they were into or their differences in approaching situations. But this felt a little different from Whirl and Hoist’s Earth museum, Whirl’s singing, Hoist’s meditation, Medix’s love of organizing and soap operas and cat videos… It felt a _lot_ different from Hot Shot’s love of Cube. This wasn’t just something Wedge wasn’t made for and something different from anything on Cybertron. Poems were emotional, and the ones he liked he felt like the poet had opened themself up and shown some deep part of themself. Poems were supposed to be about something that meant a lot to you, from what he could tell. Something you loved or feared or needed to say.

“Maybe I just don’t need to say anything,” he muttered to himself, after a dozen-or-so attempts to write a poem about the beach came out feeling flat and clumsy. He hadn’t felt this graceless since he’d tried to go against Hot Shot at Cube, and while he tried to tell himself he’d won that one, it didn’t help much.

“Are you having trouble with something?” Boulder’s calm, pleasant voice asked, and Wedge jumped, trying to hide the datapad at first before realizing that just made it way more obvious he was embarrassed and un-hiding it.

“Professor Boulder! Um… No? I mean, a little. But it’s nothing important…”

Boulder looked curious, but didn’t so much as crane their head to try to see the datapad. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to. But I’d be happy to help.”

…Maybe Boulder would be the best person to open up to. They was a teacher, so they might have some ideas; they loved nature and was the one who’d taught Hoist to meditate, so they was in touch with emotion and might understand why this was important to Wedge and how to actually _talk about_ nature. Or how to write about it. He scratched at his neck, abashed.

“I’m… trying to write a poem. About the beach.”

“And you’re not happy with the results?”

“No,” Wedge admitted, and sighed, frustrated. “It’s not coming out right. And I’ve read a lot of poetry—I mean a _lot_ —and it makes sense while I’m reading it but—I just can’t sound like that.”

“There’s definitely a difference between reading and writing,” Boulder said. “Try not to be hard on yourself. It won’t be perfect at first.”

“I don’t need it to be perfect,” he argued. “I just want it to be… kind of good? And it’s _really_ not. Believe me.” He really didn’t want to show his failed attempts to Boulder, but luckily the professor didn’t ask him to. They just hummed thoughtfully, a sound that Wedge found reassuring despite himself.

“Why about the beach, specifically?” Boulder asked.

“I like poems about nature. A lot. And—poems are supposed to be about something important to you. The beach and the ocean mean a lot to me, so that’s what I should write about, right?”

“I see what you mean,” Boulder said meditatively. “But you may be putting too much pressure on yourself. Poems about nature mean a lot to you, and the beach is important to you, and you want to write about something important to you. Are you thinking of this as an important poem?”

“…Isn’t it supposed to be?” Wedge was a bit baffled; a poem should be important at least to the person writing it, shouldn’t it? He figured that might be why he bounced off a lot of poems.

“Ah.” Boulder looked knowing. “It’s all right, Wedge. You’ve just put too much pressure on yourself. You’re having a hard time making something you’re proud of because you feel like it’s important to get it right. But you’re new to this, and you’re going to need to practice.”

“How?”

“Humans do something called freewriting. It’s when you sit down and just let yourself write anything that comes to mind. It might not even be a poem. But writing about what you think and how you feel can get you used to getting words down, and that will help your writing.”

A thought occurred, and Wedge was interested, “Have you ever written anything?”

“Once or twice.”

He kind of wanted to ask to see it, but fair was fair; he appreciated that Boulder hadn’t asked to look at what he’d been trying to write. “Okay, so just… Think about the beach and write whatever comes to mind?”

“It doesn’t have to be about the beach. You might feel less pressure if you wait on that,” Boulder suggested. “Just write anything. And keep reading poetry,” they added. “The more you read and write, the more you’ll figure out what you like, and your own style.”

‘Freewriting’ was easier said than done. Part of it, Wedge was sure, was that he was used to things that were measurable. Pass or fail grades, right or wrong answers, situations the team either succeeded or failed at. Sure, there were gradients in there, passing grades that weren’t great, an answer that wasn’t right but was on the right track, a mission where they could only do so much. But there were still concrete results. Writing, as it turned out, was nothing but nebulous, and he was in way over his head with things like that.

 _Seagulls, wings stretched out like jets,_ he tried, automatically going for poetry and the beach again, and swiftly discarded it.

 _Being part of a team is better than I imagined. It’s no longer about being good enough. We have each others’ backs,_ he also discarded.

_This feels really stupid and I’m no good with words. I feel like I should just give up. What if I can’t get better at it? How will I know if I’m getting better?_

He paused. That was no better, honestly, but it _felt_ a little better. At least getting it out there was kind of freeing, even if no one was ever going to see it. Maybe even because of that.

_It’s almost easier for me to write about being frustrated and feeling bad. That’s kind of sad, actually. Maybe I should keep going, but it feels like this is going to take a lot of effort, too. If I really want to improve. I’m not sure I have time to dedicate to this with classes and missions and the rescue alarm going off_

He dropped the datapad on his desk and ran for the launch tubes. And if he’d gotten there last he would legitimately have dropped the whole idea of writing, but all of them made it at just about the same time, with Hot Shot and Hoist’s feet hitting the ground just a second after his, so that was all right.

He didn’t spend all his free time trying to write, obviously. Whenever the group got together to watch movies, or play games, or do pretty much anything else, he had no inclination to brush them off. He’d toss the lobbing ball or kick the soccer ball around with Hot Shot, hang out with Medix, go out to the beach on his own to pick up trash and comb for seaglass and bits of fossil and bone. But he was on his datapad at least a few minutes every day, usually either before his nightly recharge cycle or right after defragmenting. And Professor Boulder had a point… The less he tried to make the words pretty, the less he tried to stick to a specific subject, the easier they came out.

That wasn’t actually making _poetry_ any easier, though. Every time he tried to turn things back in that direction, he felt that fumbling uncertainty rise back up in him, the words tripping over themselves. It was better than before, but still not any good.

 _Snow on the ground and in the air, / After a mission, we five share…_ There was something clumsy and childish to it that he just didn’t feel when reading others’ poems. Not every line needed to rhyme; maybe that was the problem?

“Rookie mistake,” he muttered, and felt a little better to be able to tell himself that, to spot what he hoped was the problem.

The next night, after one of their rare days off, he tried longer lines, alternating rhymes. Thinking about his team this time, what they all liked, shying away from nature for the moment but still sticking to something close to his spark; he couldn’t bring himself not to. _The things that light them up inside are different as can be, / but still reveal themselves in brighter eyes and brighter voice, / like their sparks can’t help shining through ??_ But he got hung up there, stumped on what to rhyme with ‘be’ and then, when he tried to just move onto the next line and maybe fix that one up later, having even less idea of what to rhyme with ‘voice’.

“This is impossible,” he groaned, pushing the datapad away from himself and sitting down on the edge of his bed, rubbing his forehead. “Okay. Maybe I can try starting off _not_ rhyming. Free verse sounds kind of like freewriting, so maybe it’s easier?”

The next morning, before he headed to class, he had a few extra minutes and spent it typing:

_3-simplex, dodecahedron  
Liege Maximo’s benediction, Micronus in their Core  
almost round  
like a spark, or a star  
or home_

He stopped there, dissatisfied. That was… maybe better, technically, but it didn’t feel right either. His spark really wasn’t in this one, and he knew he’d had it right when he’d thought it needed to be important to him for him to feel good about his own poetry. That felt more like how a poem was ‘supposed’ to go, but there was no real emotion in it, or at least not deep emotion. He wasn’t particularly homesick. He liked Earth, and more than that he liked the Academy, and even more than that he liked his team…

He headed out, a bit too late to grab a cube before class, making a note to refuel after.

There was a late-night rescue that night, not far from the Academy, and while they were all pretty worn out they didn’t make any big mistakes during it. Spirits were high as they decided to drive back, instead of taking a bridge, and Wedge basked in the banter between them all and the excitement of a job well done. Maybe he'd been on the right track trying to write about all of them…

“Hel- _loo?”_ Hot Shot’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Wedge? You driving on autopilot, buddy?”

“Huh?” Wedge asked, startled. “Oh, sorry. Guess I must be tired.” Now he had a better idea of why he didn’t want to share this hobby of his; he wanted to keep it to himself until he was at least a little better at it, anyway.

“That was rather exhausting,” Medix agreed. “And satisfying.”

“And exciting!” Whirl added.

“Which is also exhausting,” Medix pointed out.

“Yeah,” Hoist said, “I usually work on a few things before sleeping, but I’m beat.”

“So _nobody’s_ gonna join me for a game?” Hot Shot audibly drooped, if not visibly. “Aw, man. That mission has me all amped up.”

“I’ll help you work out some energy, Hot Shot!” Whirl was as enthusiastic as ever, and Wedge honestly didn’t know how she did it, because he really was tired now that he was thinking about it.

When he actually got to his room, though, he sat down on his bed but then reached over to grab his datapad. The mission _had_ been exciting, and he was a little energetic still, if worn out, and something about the drive back had grabbed onto him. He wasn’t even sure what it was yet.

“Guess that’s what freewriting’s good for,” he said under his breath, scanning his last attempt at a poem dissatisfied before scrolling down.

_This is home, not Cybertron. Wherever my team is. The stars aren’t a bad subject, but my friends might be even better? I should try again. What about the drive got me wanting to write? It was a job well done. Being around people I love. We don’t usually drive so late, so maybe seeing the world in a new way?_

_The constellations don’t lead home._

He hesitated, then, suddenly inspired, went down a few more lines and started again.

_Stars path the way home.  
I don’t even need to look at the sky to see them  
and the way they light up  
the world, the road,  
your bright paint as we drive.  
Your headlights light up the road like stars,  
your bright voice lighting up  
everything that sparks in me.  
Unerringly pointing me to  
the only place I need to be._

He stopped, but for the first time, not due to dissatisfaction. There was still a bit of clumsiness there, yes, but it felt better, for the first time it felt halfway decent, and even being short it felt done. He’d actually finished a poem!

And that was only half of what was taking him aback, because he’d finished it—written a little over half of it, actually—thinking of Medix.

“You’ve helped me out with a lot. Why not this, too?” he said to himself. Too bad he couldn’t actually show this to Medix, because it still felt rough, unpolished, clumsy like some newborn animal. Maybe no one showed off the first poem they ever wrote-slash-actually-finished. Maybe it was too wobbly and fragile for that.

“Okay, now I’m stuck thinking in metaphors.”

It made sense, though. He really cared about Medix, they was maybe his closest friend here, even if he like Hot Shot would consider the entire team his best friends. Medix had also tried to help him out whenever he was feeling down about himself, especially during Halloween. It would be hard to write a short poem addressed to four different people all at once, so Medix kind of stood in for the whole team. Medix did point him home—it was where his friends were.

He still read poetry, just like Boulder had suggested. He’d lapsed a bit while he was trying to actually successfully write any poem of his own, hadn’t been reading as much, but he renewed his habits after that, feeling more secure now in the knowledge that he could actually finish something.

He reread old favorites, saved new poems to his datapad and didn’t see a pattern to them at first. It was harder not to notice the pattern in his more successful attempts at poetry.

He managed three that were about nature, and he was pretty happy with them. One about earth—not Earth—one about regrowth after a fire, and one about sea glass though not about the beach itself; he was still trying to get better at things, feel a little more confident in his writing, before trying to tackle _that_ project again. He wrote one about Heatwave-the-dog and dogs in general after he and his owner came to visit on one of their days off. He even wrote one about Whirl and Hoist’s museum, and their enthusiasm for it.

But out of the dozen short poems he actually managed to finish over those few months, most of his successful attempts, the ones that flowed most easily, were about Medix. There was no denying or ignoring that.

“How are you doing with your writing?” Boulder asked one day, when no one else was around; Wedge was grateful for their quiet voice.

“Better, I think,” he said honestly, and hesitated. “Professor, is there a name for when there’s one subject that’s especially inspiring for you? One that’s easier to write about than anything else?”

“Humans call that a ‘muse’,” Boulder said. “Have you found something like that yourself?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Wedge said, fans trying to cool down swiftly-warming internal systems. He excused himself, hopefully before Boulder could notice his embarrassment. Looking up muses didn’t explain much itself, just some human mythologies, but there was only so long Wedge could honestly think that Medix was just standing in for the entire team. That was definitely not what was happening anymore, if it ever had been.

It wasn’t like he didn’t know he found Medix _attractive._ Of course he did; he had since they’d met! But as they’d simultaneously become more of a team and also gotten to know one another better, that had felt less appropriate, so he’d tried to put it to one side. And they hadn’t been particularly close before Medix had confessed to all of them that they’d thought they _didn’t like the real Medix,_ and Wedge had gone out of his way after that to try to spend more time with Medix, to make it clear that they was liked. Or, it had been going out of his way the first time, but almost immediately he’d wished he’d done it sooner, because he actually did like Medix a lot, as a person and as a friend…

_I watch as you arrange and rearrange  
your things, your hands gingerly setting glass  
in just-so places on the shelves. It’s strange;  
I could take this time to prepare for class,  
I know you wouldn’t mind. Just being here  
satisfies both our want for company.  
I always offer help, but you see clear  
exactly what you want, and don’t need me  
throwing things off, hands bumping into yours,  
in your way. That’s fine. I just enjoy the sight  
of your precise fingers caught up in their chores  
getting your space perfect. Or not quite.  
You know you’ll just put them back. You know it’s true.  
Just like I know that my thoughts will return to you._

That was not a friendly sentiment. It wasn’t even a sentiment of finding Medix attractive or alluring, which wouldn’t have been a surprise because _duh._ That was his newest poem and he was just about shouting at himself to notice that he kept thinking about Medix, basically.

That was, not to drive the point home too hard, a love poem. Wedge had read love poems, he knew what they looked like! He’d saved several. He’d… saved most of the ones he’d saved over the past few months, in retrospect.

He found Medix beautiful, he liked Medix a whole lot, he loved Medix as well as all the rest of them as a friend, but did he _love Medix?_ It was an uncertain boundary that he hadn’t thought about before, and he was finding it hard to recognize now, except apparently in the words that came out of him when he wasn’t thinking too hard about it.

And in some of the other poems he’d chosen to save to his datapad, without thinking anything much of it at all. He had written, by itself, the most important set of lines in a poem he’d found, ones that had stuck with him enough that he’d wanted to come back to them more than any of the rest of it, enough that he’d circled them insistently.

_& how many times have you loved me without my asking?  
how often have i loved a thing because you loved it?  
including me_

“Scraplets,” Wedge said into his hands, covering his face. “Okay. That’s fine. Just, nobody can ever see _these_ poems. But why are these so much easier…”

He trailed off, realizing it even as he said it. Part of him had been expecting that he’d eventually be able to open up about this and share some poem he’d written, even if it wasn’t his very first one. He really didn’t mind opening up to his friends, if he could believe he was any good at it. With the poems about, or to, or just… thinking of Medix, part of him had already known they were something different, something he didn’t want to just go showing everyone.

“How do poets ever publish love poems?” he asking himself aloud, staring down at his datapad with new eyes. “That’s insane!” He had a new appreciation for the bravery of poets, Primus.

He refocused. He still wasn’t finishing about half the poems he started, but he was getting better, he could tell. He wrote a sonnet about being underwater, cycling water through his ventilation system instead of air, the calming sensation of it. He wrote a haiku about Schnoodles, and then another about the yellow-eyed penguins, and then three more about various rescue missions for good measure, because haiku were actually really addictive as it turned out. He wrote a triolet about flying through space, through the dark and past the distant stars. He wrote a rondel about Medix’s grin, a cocky expression he rarely got to see but found a renewed appreciation for in memory. He wrote a limerick about Tough Luck Chuck that he did actually mark as maybe being willing to share with the others sometime. He wrote a monorhyme about Wes’s determination to earn merit badges, feeling like he was really getting a lot better at rhyming without getting totally stuck or feeling like it read unpracticed and clumsy. He utterly failed at writing a sestina about feeling like he was able to do more than he used to believe he could, which kept trying to turn into another poem about Medix anyway.

He was kind of fed up by that point and tried writing freeverse again, a totally unstructured poem purposefully about Medix that time, about how attractive they was, trying to get it out of his system. He didn’t just not finish that poem, but deleted it entirely and outright. He was glad he’d tried writing that one at night, because if he’d done it in the morning he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to meet Medix’s eyes at all that day.

This was getting all tangled up. He was actually doing pretty well, he thought, and he was proud of that, and in his spark he really did still want to write about nature, and Earth, and his team, and all the important things, and even to be able to share them. But his spark also crackled with feeling for Medix specifically, and he couldn’t ignore that. He couldn’t share it with anyone else, but… maybe he _should_ share it with Medix.

“This is a terrible idea,” he told himself. Then argued with himself, “But, hey, maybe you’ll stop writing so many poems about them now that you’re thinking about sharing them.”

Maybe not. Their second year was about to start, and he’d actually spent a fair amount of their short break reading and writing. More than he had while they’d been having classes, anyway. He still didn’t sequester himself away, far from it, but all of them needed some alone time and he took his in his room, or out in the canyons, or in the woods, or on the beach.

With only a couple days left until classes started back up, he got up early and went down to the beach at dawn, before anyone else was awake, bringing a couple of cubes so he could refuel that morning and a little bit later without having to leave, and two datapads. For the first time, he let himself spend hours down there, and he picked up trash, cleaned up as best he could, and sat down, letting himself just watch the ocean. He’d picked up another piece of sea glass as well, a small one even by human standards, and felt its small smoothness in his palm, thinking. It was close to noon when he started writing, and the sea breeze kept it from being too hot; he’d found an out of the way place where he only had to hide once or twice from humans who wandered _really_ far from the crowd, usually with dogs, and smiled as he watched them pass, and enjoyed the sounds of the beachgoers at a distance.

“I finished it,” he said quietly to Boulder when he came back through the bridge.

They smiled at him, so obviously pleased for him that he had to grin back. “Good for you, Wedge!”

“I owe a lot to you for encouraging me, Professor,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “And I’d like you to read it tomorrow. If you’re interested! I want to share it with the others first.”

“I understand,” Boulder assured him. “And I’d be happy to.”

Hot Shot was at one of the arcade machines when Wedge entered the common room, and the other three were all sitting on the couch in front of the T.V. He felt a little shaky, off-balance, and it would have been a little too easy to just tell himself he didn’t want to interrupt them, so it was a good thing that Whirl noticed him.

She twisted around, then turned down the T.V. and just flat-out got up on her knees on the couch, one arm over the back of it, the other waving. “Wedge!”

“Whoa!” Hot Shot turned away from his game, losing his last life and, to be fair to him, only giving a mild, “—Aw, man!” when he noticed before turning back to Wedge. “Where’ve you been? I didn’t think we were gonna see you at all today!”

“Yeah, you never disappear like that,” Hoist said, and Wedge was touched by the concern, and when Medix piped up:

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Wedge said, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry, guys. I didn’t mean to worry anyone. I’ve just… been working on something.”

Whirl was practically standing on the couch at that point. “Really? What?”

“Um…” Wedge froze. He hadn’t thought this through completely, and he was just realizing it then—how do you share a poem with a group of people? Pass the datapad around so they could all read it quietly? Oh, no, he was actually going to have to read it _out loud,_ wasn’t he??

“Yeah, Wedge!” Hot Shot was enthusing. “Spill!”

Hoist was attuned to the specific sort of social discomfort Wedge was going through, luckily. Wedge really appreciated her. “Come on, don’t rush him. You know how Wedge gets about the spotlight,” she reminded them.

“He liked it at Dig Fest,” Hot Shot pointed out, but subsided, heading over to the couch. “C’mon, big guy, sit down, open those vents. It’s just us.”

Wedge glanced at Medix, then over at Whirl and Hoist as well, trying to make that initial impulse less obvious. “Right,” he agreed. “It’s just you.”

Hot Shot sat on the end of the couch, and Whirl scooted over, making room between herself and Medix for him so he could sit in the middle; Medix also scooched obligingly when they realized what she was doing. Wedge couldn’t help smiling, taking a seat. “Thanks, guys.”

“Okay,” Hot Shot said. “Not rushing you, but—”

 _“Hot Shot.”_ That came from the other three pretty much simultaneously, and Wedge rolled his eyes, then laughed.

“All right, all right. So… humans write a lot of poetry. Like, a lot.”

“Like about their soccer players and rescue teams?” Hot Shot asked.

“No, human poetry’s really different!” Whirl said. “It’s like songs without the music.”

“Didn’t you say there’s a type of music that’s just music without the lyrics?”

“That’s instrumentals. Poems are _totally_ different. And…” Whirl realized they’d kind of sidetracked things, and smiled embarrassed, “Sorry for interrupting?”

Wedge couldn’t be fonder, honestly. “That’s okay. Whirl’s right, though. Most human poems are completely different from Cybertronian poems. I really like them, so… I’ve been trying to write poetry for a while.” He pulled out his datapad, and even Medix leaned over automatically as if to take a look as if it had gone from impulse to action with no processing in between.

“Hey!” He held the datapad to his chest, grinning, and they all sat back, looking varying degrees of sheepish.

“Sorry,” Hoist said.

“Yes, this is just very unexpected,” Medix said. “And exciting!”

“You said it!” Whirl agreed. “Wedge, why didn’t you say you liked poetry before now?”

“When I was just reading it, it never really came up,” Wedge explained. “And when I started writing it… I wasn’t any good at it. I wasn’t sure when, or _if,_ I would be. So I just… wrote a little bit every day until I got better.”

“Huh,” Hot Shot said. “I guess it’s like Cube—practice makes perfect, right?”

“That is basically any skill,” Medix informed him.

“And I definitely wouldn’t say ‘perfect’,” Wedge said. “I’m not that good. But I _am_ happy enough with where I am to share something I wrote… If you guys want to hear it.”

He was gratified that they looked delighted—well, mostly. “Wait, hear it? Are you really going to read it to us?!” Whirl asked excitedly.

“That’s really cool, Wedge!” Hoist said.

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Medix.

“I’m sure it’s gonna be great, but uh…” Hot Shot half-winced, half-smiled, looking sheepish, “How long is it, exactly?”

“Oh, we were just going to watch another episode of _World’s Cutest Animals_ anyway,” Medix said, and Wedge’s spark warmed at the realization that they also thought that the poem might be stupidly long and was still happy to listen.

“No, human poems are like their songs, remember?” Whirl said. “It’ll probably be six minutes, at most.”

“It’ll be a lot less than that,” Wedge assured them. “It’s only twenty-two lines. Really, really short lines.”

“Seriously?”

“C’mon, guys,” Hoist urged. “Let him read it.”

“Uh. Okay.” His friends were all _looking_ at him, and he looked down at this datapad in order to avoid having to see that. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to see their response or not, so it was probably a good thing he hadn’t tried to memorize the poem and had to read it off the screen; it took the choice away from him. “Some poems have titles, and some don’t, but this one’s called, uh. ‘And other intertidal organisms.’”

He was quiet for a moment, then just went for it.

“Tide pools have more life  
than you’d know  
just to look at them  
walking the rocks at the shore.  
If you see them at all they might seem like sad, cut-off things,  
stagnant water trapped by stones,  
separate from the sea.  
It’s a lie. They’re teeming  
with an ecosystem all their own,  
diverse and determined,  
improvisational.  
They survive every change  
sent their way by the tides, the waves  
the wind, the moon—  
every change almost too much to live through.  
Every change helping them live.  
They’re suited to it, this little bowl  
cut off from the ocean  
but a part of it.  
Like your neighborhood,  
or planet,  
or curve of the galaxy.”

When he stopped, there was silence for a few moments. Not long at all, but long enough that he felt incredibly self-conscious, and he closed out of the poem and moved to put his datapad away hurriedly. “So!” he started.

Whirl was the first to say something, right about then, luckily. “Oh my gosh, Wedge, that was _good!”_

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Hot Shot admitted, “but it wasn’t that. That was actually pretty cool!”

“Yeah! I’ve heard human songs before, and I still haven’t heard anything like that,” Hoist said.

“Excellent,” Medix said, and that one word was so whole-sparked that Wedge felt a little like he had back on Halloween again, that quiet _well done, Wedge_ when he’d stopped… hating having to be himself.

“I want to read some poems now, too,” Whirl enthused. “Are there any you like? I thought Earth poems had to rhyme!”

“A lot do,” Wedge said. “And in a lot of different ways… But they don’t have to. There are tons of styles. Including Cybertron-style poetry,” he teased Hot Shot. “They’re called epics, apparently.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think they’re epic,” Hot Shot returned. “I’ll be sure to avoid those.”

“Are you gonna write more?” Hoist asked, and held up both hands. “No pressure! I definitely want to look up some human poems for our Earth museum now.”

“Yeah, I think I’m going to keep doing this,” Wedge said, avoiding the urge to glance over to Medix again. “It’s nice.”

“I may not be familiar with the art form,” Medix said, “but I think you’re good at it.”

“Thanks,” Wedge said, and hoped Medix would still think that by the end of the night.

It took a bit for Whirl and Hoist to stop being enthusiastic about poetry in general (and Whirl about Wedge’s skills in particular), though Medix had mercy and left him alone about it, and Wedge had never been more glad that Hot Shot was distractible. Wedge did recommend them a few poets, a few places to start looking, and when they all started turning in for the night one by one, when Medix got up to leave, Wedge excused himself quickly after.

“Hey, Medix.”

Medix paused at their door, turning quizzically, and smiled at him. “Yes, Wedge?”

Wedge pulled out the second datapad, the one he’d grabbed that morning. It was a fresh one, empty except for this, something he could easily give away and Medix could get some use out of even if they didn’t end up liking the poem on it. “I actually— wrote another poem.”

“And you want me to read it first?” They took the datapad with apparent surprise. “I’m incredibly flattered. I very much liked your first one. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t really be able to give you very useful feedback. Whirl may know more about poetry, or at least song lyrics, than I do…”

“No, I mean…” It was in their hands; there was no taking it back now! “I wrote it for you.”

Medix’s expression didn’t really change; they’d already looked flattered, and they was if anything maybe a bit more quizzical now. There was no reason they’d know what Wedge meant; Cybertron didn’t have love poems. He wanted to excuse himself, let Medix read it in private and deal with whatever their response would be in the morning, but he knew that wouldn’t be fair to Medix—it wouldn’t even be fair to himself, honestly, because if he did that he would _never_ be able to get to sleep.

So he stood there, and fidgeted, and fought back his _drive away right now_ instinct, as Medix looked down at the datapad. “My favorite color—” they began, and then glanced up. “I’m sorry, would you rather I read this…?”

They trailed off, apparently intuiting that Wedge was embarrassed, probably via the sheer detective-work of noticing that the air around his vents was distorted with heat. “I’ll just read it to myself,” they agreed, giving him a quick reassuring smile that he loved them more for, helplessly.

He knew exactly what it said; this one he had memorized, or more like it had burned into his processor as he’d tinkered with it so much he’d had to make himself stop. It had no title; it was just the poem. He watched Medix’s face as their eyes scanned over the lines, and watched their expression change, knowing what part they’d gotten to when they got to it and knowing for a fact that it took them twice as long to read the final stanza as the rest of the poem before it.

_my favorite color is blue  
i can’t remember what it was before, or if i had one  
it was drowned out of me when i came here  
foot by rising-tide foot_

_and not all water is blue but the ocean  
holds nearly every shade imaginable  
from gray so gray to green so green  
they barely hold any other color  
(but sea-green is another blue whatever its name tells you)_

_and the ocean takes glass, littered  
carelessly discarded  
breaks it into pieces if it isn’t already  
and wears it down  
softens its edges and pushes it back onto the sand  
blue, most of the time  
the blue ones are my favorite, unsurprisingly  
pale, bright, sometimes dark  
frosted and soft-looking_

_but my favorite shade of blue is your eyes  
and the sea and the glass try to get close to that shade  
(but never could—what could?)  
your blue fills the final brackish inches of me, your  
eyes, when they catch me, i can’t help sinking into you  
and in your sea my edges soften into something new  
and changed each time you set me gently back upon your shore_

“Oh,” Medix said quietly, eyes wide, and the air around their own vents wavered. They looked up at Wedge, then back down at the datapad, then back up at him and held it out hesitantly. “Did you— want—”

“You keep it,” Wedge assured hurriedly. “It’s a new datapad. You can use it for other things… even if you don’t like the…” He tried to give Medix, or both of them, an out, “You can always delete it and—”

“No!” Medix’s answer was quick and fervent, and they raised a hand to cover their mouth almost abashed, but kept speaking anyway. Their voice came out muffled. “No. Absolutely not.”

Wedge relaxed; he hadn’t realized he’d been holding himself half so tense as he had been. His pistons actually gave a quiet _psst._ “You like it?” he asked, starting to smile hesitantly.

“I’m—” Medix started, and then dropped their hand. “I’m overwhelmed, honestly. This entire situation seems… incredibly un-real. In a good way.” They added, almost under their breath, “Primus, I hope I’m not making an assumption.”

“Not even a little,” Wedge assured them. “I didn’t want to be too coy about it; I know you don’t always appreciate metaphors.”

Medix looked back down at the datapad. “You took a risk for me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re worth risk.”

“…You also switched to rhyming at the end.”

Wedge grinned, crossing his arms. “Some poems rhyme. I can do both. It’s allowed.”

Medix sighed, glancing away, but a smile played at their lips. “You could tell me anything about poetry and I’d believe you.”

“I could put a few more poems on there,” Wedge said impulsively. Medix looked at him again. “Uh… Just a few, though.”

 _“Wedge.”_ Medix looked delighted, and Wedge resolved that he was going to write them another poem at some point, sometime soon, and when he did it was definitely going to contain the word _muse._ “Exactly how long have you been trying to—”

“It’s been a while, and I think about you a lot.”

Medix went quiet, eyes going big and round again, and it was Wedge’s turn to look away, clearing his vents. “So, tomorrow, if I can have the datapad back for a few minutes, I can…”

“You can, yes.” Medix stepped towards him, leaned in and pressed their lips to his in a soft kiss. “I hope you aren’t planning on disappearing for hours again,” they added, politely ignoring the fact that Wedge was pretty much gaping at them now, his own eyes wide.

He started to grin, slowly, feeling absolutely over the moon, head over wheels. “What if you’re invited?”

“…Then I absolutely hope we are planning on disappearing.”

“Then it’s a date,” Wedge said, and the way Medix’s eyes brightened he couldn’t help kissing them again.


End file.
